Noticing the Unnoticeable
by Supreme-Chickenlord
Summary: An unnamed detective is sent out to find information on the nonsensical Scribblenaut, Maxwell, but ends up learning more about himself instead.


**Author's note: It's been a long time. How have you been?**

 **This story takes place in an alternate multiverse in which Maxwell is... different.**

 **This story is inspired by the awesome author known as "Ysavvryl" (please tell me I spelled that correctly), and her story, "Acts of God".**

* * *

It was nothing, then there was light, and that was all I could remember of my past.

I guess I chalked up the unknowns of my origins to being a forgetful child. But I soon realized that my story was more complicated and simpler than, "A male child was born and he grew up".

And it all had to do with the strange abilities of an unstoppable force of unknown age.

His name was Maxwell, and, apart from looking and sounding like the average guy, he had a unique ability, the ability to literally create any kind of object whatsoever. With this ability, caused by a strangely indestructible notebook permanently bound to his presence, he could do anything he wanted without much consequence. He merely needed to think of any object, any shape, word, or otherwise, to create it and its attributes. He could create a flying box with hair for eyeballs, or a dragon the size of a pea, or even a man with a toothpick for a body, glass cups for legs, and fingernails for a face, literally just by thinking of it, and, by watching from a safe distance, I noticed that the word just "pops" up in his notebook at the same time the object does, as it seems he writes so quickly, it is impossible to stop or predict his next move.

I've always had trouble looking at, or even noticing him. If I look, I hear and see the word "Unnoticeable" repeat itself inside my head. Same goes for if I notice him. This used to make me forget that he was even there, but now, I've overcome it.

Oh, and did I also forget to mention that he can edit everything too?

He may seem pretty unbeatable, but as shown in what you are about to read, this is not true. He cannot "die" in the traditional sense, as he just keeps coming back, but you'll figure out exactly what happens after I start the story.

So, I got a job as a detective five years ago, and I've been a detective ever since. I was asked to look into this "Maxwell", which everyone knew too well. I asked "why?", and they said that, "Some pretty peculiar happenings have been witnessed around here ever since he popped into the mainstream". I knew that when they said "pretty peculiar", they meant "pregnant cars", "ballistic deadly angry lamps", and "smelly nuclear flaming potatoes".

So I complied, and went cruising throughout the area. My city is a very simple city, though a lot smaller than areas such as "Capital City", but still pretty sizeable nonetheless. I say this in the present tense because I still live there, and nothing has really changed. Unrelated, I found out that, through some kind of odd screening, that I am physically unable to produce a Starite for some unknown reason, nor do I have any of that kind of power in me. They tested many methods that worked in the past, but to no avail. I know exactly why now, but I won't spill too much information on that yet. A Starite, by the way, is literally a little yellow star made of pure energy. It is the part of you that has the power to bless people and break curses. Basically, it is a magical item that can only be brought out by things extraordinary. Most people have an infinite number of them, but can only ever manifest one in their lifetime.

Another interesting fact about Maxwell is that he is very mischievous, and sometimes even selfish. He will make a building turn into a pile of angry uninhabitable jello, just to change it back when people complain, all because he wanted another Starite. He never bothered to talk to me, until recently, as you'll learn. In fact, he used to ignore me. I used to call to him, and, being the silent person he is, he usually doesn't reply, nor to anybody else does he usually speak. I'd have said he was mute, but there were utterances heard out of him from time to time, such as "Oh, come on...", "Damn...", and "Why doesn't this...". He also usually has a fake grin, which doesn't go away until he gets really frustrated, annoyed, or angry.

Anyways, on to the story, I drove to the house, which was alive and told great jokes, something that only Maxwell was capable of making a house do. Maxwell was said to have lived inside of it. I parked in front of it. It fit the description given in looks but the adjectives were unexpected. As I already had gone through all of the legal steps to enter the house (I did not go over this because it would have been long, and boring), and opened the door. I heard what I assumed to be angry Italian and gunshots inside of the house. There were two men, both carrying a giant red gun. From what I've read about on the internet, these two men were "Leonardo Da Vinci" and "Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni", courtesy of Google. They were both carrying guns, and when they saw me, they smiled and greeted me.

"Welcome to Maxlandia, where everything is batshit insane.", Michelangelo stated with an enthusiastic, silly edge to his voice.

Suddenly, his face morphed into that of a stereotypical black man, and he shouted, "HOPE YA LIKE MR. BIGGS, DICK".

Suddenly, a man who I figured was Mr. Biggs appeared and abruptly shoved Michelangelo out of the way.

"HOPE YA LIKE YO' STAY HERE, NIGGA.", he stated bluntly, in a loud, boisterous tone.

Then I saw Maxwell. He was advancing towards me at supersonic speeds.

Then he cleared his throat, and spoke. His voice sounded like that of a 20 year old man.

"Hello, Dick. I am Maxwell, the Scribblenaut.", he greeted playfully.

"Hello, Maxwell, I've been wanting to speak with you regarding some of the recent, strange happenings around the city.", I replied programmatically.

I looked at the two men. They looked back at me, raising their eyebrows.

 _Or, the strange happenings everywhere_ , I thought.

Maxwell did a false sigh.

"Listen, I've got some Scribble-Scrabblish stuff to get to, Dick. So, how about you just go on, and, you know, go throw up.", He seemed arrogantly and playfully confrontational. I wasn't really keen on getting on his bad side, but it was my job.

"Maxwell", I said, after a long exhale, "This is serious."

The he joined the two others, and raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, fine. What is it that you require so desperately from me? In fact, I should just add the adjective, 'desperate', to you, Dick."

"Do what you want with me, I only ask for your cooperation."

Maxwell then brought out his notebook and quicker than I could blink, we were sitting at a table.

"Alright, Dick, make this quick."

"Well, I'd like to as-"

"Yep, I've been doing some decorating, and now that I've given you my piece, Dick, please kindly leave."

"But-"

I then awoke to found myself in a bedroom, of which Maxwell had probably placed me in. It was early in the morning. I could hear the simmering of an egg on a stove outside.

When I went outside to check, I saw a living black hole, which was wearing an apron and cooking at a stove.

"Good morning, Dick."

This was when I found out a major clue to my back story. I could tell any one of Maxwell's creation's names just by simply looking at them, which is why, I presume, that I was able to flawlessly name the two men, besides using Google as history class years back.

"Hello, Da Awesome Black Hole."

The black hole paused. It was staring at me... Well, it would be staring if it had eyes. I knew that Maxwell didn't expect this. He thought it wore off. But it didn't. It doesn't ever wear off.

"Excuse me?", I heard Maxwell's voice.

Right after then, I found myself in a bathroom. I looked around and tried to open, no, more like... bust through the bathroom door. It was useless. Not only did the door not budge, but the bathroom started 'hurting' me because of it.

"HEY, STOP HITTIN' ME, MATE.", the bathroom shouted at me.

Then Mr. Biggs appeared in the room with me.

"Yo', Dick, stop hittin' mah nigga M8 here, man."

I looked. The house was indeed called 'M8'. And Mr. Biggs was indeed called 'Mr. Biggs'.

Then Maxwell showed up. He seemed different, as I could actually see the name of him. He looked in such a way that I knew that this was simply a creation of Maxwell.

"So, do you like chicken, Dick?"

"Uh, yes...?", I replied with full honesty.

"GOOD! Y'know what? Spread them cheeks, boy."

"..."

"Ha! I'm just joking with you, Dick. But, I am not actually Maxwell..."

He then turned into a T-Rex, or, as it was actually called, "The Motherfucking T-Rex".

At that point I ran outside, literally jumped into my car, and drove away.


End file.
